


To Kilt A Man

by laleia



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-12
Updated: 2010-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laleia/pseuds/laleia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It all started with that blasted chair.</i> The story of how Parker and Hardison got in Eliot's pants by getting him into a kilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kilt A Man

It all started with a chair. 

Not just any chair, though—Hardison’s chair.

You see, Hardison’s chair was special. It was custom-made, specifically constructed to accommodate his tall frame (which not all chairs could do _comfortably_), cushy enough he could sit for eight straight hours without his butt falling asleep, but not so pleasant he'd fall asleep in the middle of something important. (That’d happened with his old chair—so comfortable he'd slept through his raid leader’s obnoxiously loud ventrillo chat during a heroic.) Plus, though he'd never admit this, it was designed so that if he so chose, he could spin in it for hours without nausea.

It was, in short, the perfect chair.

Key word being _was_.

“I said I’m sorry, man! What more do you want?”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Is sorry going to bring back my chair? Is it? Is saying sorry going to-”

“I can fix it. Just give me a day and-”

“Do I- Do I want a chair that’s lumpy and shit because you fixed it wrong? Do I want to go anywhere near a chair you broke while having sex? That’s just- That’s just _nasty_.”

“For the last time, I wasn’t having sex!”

“Well, if that wasn’t sex then I don’t even want to know what you were doing with a black dildo and mango pudding-”

“I’ll just buy you a new one,” Eliot said, before Hardison could air any more of his dirty laundry.

“You think you can just walk into a store and buy me a new chair? You think my chair was something you can buy off Amazon? The chair you broke was no ordinary chair, Eliot. It was perfect. Custom-made. _Irreplaceable_." Hardison shook his head in disbelief.

“Well, then what do you want me to do?”

“I want to- to get even. To avenge my chair!" 

“I don’t exactly have a super-special chair you can break.”

“I must restore my honor and avenge my chair by attacking what you value most—your dignity. Only-"

"Yeah, yeah." Eliot rolled his eyes. "Skip the dramatics and cut to the chase. What will shut you up about the damn chair?"

Hardison narrowed his eyes. "I want you to wear a kilt."

\--

Eliot objected, of course. There was no logical connection between breaking a chair and wearing a kilt. It was stupid. Kilts were stupid. Vengeance was stupid. Kilts were _itchy_ and stupid. He told Hardison he could get a chair anywhere, that this whole "perfect chair" shtick was ridiculous. Kilts were ridiculous. This whole _thing_ was ridiculous. "I'll buy a chair factory to make you a fucking chair, if that's what you want. This is just you being perverse!" (“You mean perverted, darling,” Sophie had commented. “_Perverse_ means contrary.” "He's being perverted _and_ perverse!")

Eliot tried to simply replace the chair. If only it were that simple.

Apparently, Hardison outfitted his chair like it was the fucking Batmobile or something. The wood was hand-carved, with at least fifteen different secret compartments. The cushions were hand-sewn from cloth made by free-range sheep and organically-grown cotton. There was electronic wiring in the chair, nine different USB ports (though Eliot was still not sure what those USB ports connected _to_), and some sort of doohickey that boosted wireless signal. The proportions of the chair were carefully calculated from measurements taken of Hardison's height, breadth, weight, stature, inseam, outseam, shoe size, and ring size. Hardison? Was really weird.

But Eliot had his dignity to maintain, the self-same dignity Hardison seemed intent on destroying, so even when he conceded that he _couldn't_ just replace the chair with the snap of a finger, he objected to wearing a kilt. He didn’t just object, he _strenuously_ objected for all of eight days.__

“Where am I supposed to get a kilt?” he asked at one point.

“The only difference between a kilt and a skirt is that you wear underwear under one and not the other,” Sophie had remarked over her very posh pudding. (Just what he needed, Eliot thought resentfully.) “I’m sure I have an old skirt somewhere you could borrow,” she had continued with a smirk.

“Why do you want to see me in a kilt?” he asked three days later.

“Who wouldn’t want to see you in a kilt?” Parker had said, from nowhere. “Kilts are hot. And more accessible.”

Eliot …found himself at a loss for words. So did Hardison, from the look on his face. Sophie rolled her eyes at them, and gracefully to changed the subject.

“How long do I need to wear this kilt?” Eliot finally asked, when Hardison wouldn’t shut up about the stupid chair and kept on harping on the stupid story about his kinky sex in the chair (which was a lie, dammit).

“A full day, man. Twenty-four hours. Think you’re man enough for that?”

And so that’s how Eliot finally gave in and went to a costume rental shop so he could find an actual kilt and do it properly. (No way was he wearing one of Sophie’s skirts.)

He finally showed up to the office one Friday (casual Fridays, don't you know?) in full kilt regalia, and grunted, “Are you happy now?”

Hardison's reponse was laughter. And then more laughter. And when Eliot thought he was done laughing, there was yet more laughter. Even after the laughter died down, the humiliation was not over. Hardison took pictures. Many pictures. Hardison did not stop teasing him, made kilt puns and kilt jokes and skirt jokes and Scottish jokes all day.  Hardison, it seemed, it was _more_ than happy.

Eliot bore it, though he came very close to strangling Hardison once or twice. The brightest bit of his day was the look on Hardison’s face when Parker gave him (kilt and all) an appraising look and asked Hardison his stance on threesomes. And who knew, but apparently Sophie also had a thing for kilts. Maybe it had something to do with being British.

(Nate just gave them all his long-suffering “Am I surrounded by children?” look and ignored their antics.)

The day seemed to last forever, but when they'd finally finished planning for their next job, when the day'd wound down and the sun'd set, when he thought he was done with the itchy, starchy, tartan skirt rubbing against his junk, Hardison gave him this ridiculous look and said, “What, you thought that wearing that fine kilt in the privacy of Nate’s apartment was all you would need to do?”

“What do you mean?” Eliot asked suspiciously.

“We’re going clubbing!” Parker said. “Whee!”

\--

Now, Eliot had never been one for clubs, not unless he was working a job as a bodyguard for some rich, spoiled brat (rare) or pulling a Miami Beach scam where he had to pretend to be a bouncer (rarer). According to one of his many ex-girlfriends, his entire “vibe” was less "urban celeb" and more "rugged outdoorsman," whatever the hell that meant. Basically, whenever he was at a club, he looked out of place.

Eliot didn’t like nightclubs much on the best of days (too many people, too loud, too dark—he could think of three different ways to kill someone with his bare hands without anybody noticing and fourteen more if he had time to premeditate), but he soon learned that going to one in a kilt was worse.

The club was packed. He hadn’t been stuck between so many sweaty bodies since the evacuation of [classified], and at least then he’d been decently clothed. Having nothing more than starchy plaid between his crotch and numerous grinding women was better in theory than in practice. The sweltering heat made the tartan itch more (he hoped to god he wasn't getting a rash), and the close quarters meant stimulation was uncomfortable rather than stimulating.

And of course, girls kept on squealing over his kilt. Who’d have thought a kilt would get you more girls (and girls was what they were, girls barely out of their teenaged years if that, who’d probably gotten ahold of their older sisters’ fake ids). The women that were more his type were probably all sitting at the bar and laughing at him.

It didn’t help that Parker and Hardison spent the whole night dancing with each other (honestly, there were some things he didn’t need to see because that was what people had invented bedrooms for), while he kept on having to turn away dance partners who’d noticed he was commando and were getting a little too frisky.

It was like he was some sort of wilting virgin, turning away the big, scary college girls who just wanted their night of fun. If he weren’t in this ridiculous getup, if he weren’t in a bad mood already, he might appreciate all the attention.

As it was, he slipped away after a few hours to grab a breather in the cooler hallway. Even then, he had to wend his way past a young couple making out (they didn’t look like they could be older than 20, the kids were just getting younger and younger these days), another room blasting eighties’ music, and a bouncer throwing out two too-drunk-for-their-own-good college students.

Finally, he had a moment and some space to himself. He breathed in the cool air and smoothed his kilt self-consciously. Closing his eyes, he half-wondered what had possessed him to come out here in this getup when he could be in a bar picking up some chicks for the night. Maybe he should just leave now, change into some normal clothes, and salvage the night with some hot-and-heavy-

“Aw, are you having a bad time?” a voice whispered into his ear.

Eliot’s eyes snapped open, his first instinct to punch first and ask questions later. His brain caught up with his instincts two seconds later, reminding him very clearly and carefully that the voice belonged to Parker and punching Parker would be a bad idea. (Parker was crazy. Dealing with crazy people was like tickling sleeping dinosaurs. They could do anything.)

He turned to look at Parker, who stood just a touch too close. She half-smiled as she leaned back, acknowledging his once-over, Hardison smoking a few feet behind her.

“Are we done here?” he growled at Hardison. “Have you had a good laugh? Can I go home now?”

“Not until you have fun,” Parker declared. “Party-pooper.”

“I’m in a hot, packed nightclub surrounded by sweaty people I don’t know, I have been groped by seven girls and two guys and I think the tartan is giving my dick a rash.” 

“Aw, do you want me to kiss it better?” Parker smirked.  Then licked her lips.

Eliot’s brain sputtered to a halt. “Wha- H- But-”

“You’re thinking too much.” Without warning, Parker leaned in and kissed him hard. There was tongue, teeth, and just a hint of vodka on her breath. She didn’t even have the decency to seem out-of-breath when she was done. “Feel better?”

Eliot usually prided himself on being smooth, but it seemed like Parker (and by extension, Hardison, who was coolly looking on) had shorted some key wires in his brain. “Uh …” was all he could muster.

“Now,” Parker continued. “Hardison says there’s an empty alleyway behind this place, and I want sex, so I expect to see you both there in five.”

And with that, she disappeared back into the crowd.

“What the hell?” Eliot managed. “You two … you two are crazy.”

“Don’t even pull that, man,” Hardison laughed. “You were having sex with someone in _my_ chair with _pudding_ and a _dildo_. You can’t pretend you’re not into kinky exhibitionist shit. What’s a threesome in an alleyway compared to that?”

“Was this whole kilt thing just a fucked-up way to get into my pants?” Because there were easier ways to do so that didn’t involve public humiliation.

“Naw, inviting you clubbing was to get in your pants. The kilt's to fuck with you because you broke my chair. Now, are you coming?”

Eliot sighed. He did have a hard-on now—might as well do something about it. “Wouldn’t want to upset Parker by blowing her off, I guess.” 

\--

The next morning, management was surprised to find that security footage from one of the alleys near the club went fuzzy between 2:18 AM and 3:03 AM. They chalked it up to malfunctioning equipment, and made a note to buy some newer-model security cameras.

\--

When the very large package arrived at HQ the next day, Eliot didn’t pay much attention until Hardison opened up the package to reveal a chair that was identical to the old one.

“Wait, didn’t you tell me your chair was one of a kind?”

“Well, it is now," Hardison said with a slow smile. “Since you broke the old one, I had my chair guy get me another one. Piece of cake."

He chuckled at his own cleverness, and didn’t see Eliot’s unmistakable smirk as he walked out the door.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Sophie said from the hallway. “What did you do to his chair?”

“What do you mean?” Eliot asked as innocently as Eliot ever could.

“Eliot …”

“Nothing serious,” Eliot shrugged. “Just made a few minor adjustments. The fabric’ll give him a rash, the chair’s a little too low, the cushion slightly less comfortable and …”

They all heard Hardison settle into his chair and give it a spin. The squeak was loud in the silence.

“Eliot!”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lkwang for Christmas, prompt: "Parker either w Hardison or both Hardison and Eliot featuring a kilt, clubbing, a super comfy spinny chair that doesn't cause nausea, a cameo from theladyrose &amp; her boytoy, and an optional secret passageway, black dildo, and pudding."


End file.
